


Mandrake

by whereismygarden



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin has a mishap with a potion in his tower, and Belle takes it upon herself to help him relieve his pain. PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mandrake

**Author's Note:**

> From a prompt from iambicdearie on tumblr.

                Belle didn’t even realize what he was so upset about, at first. It was only a few drops of the clear, deep brown liquid that had splashed out of the bottle and onto his hand: the majority of it was still safely enclosed in cut crystal, now firmly stoppered. Rumpelstiltskin, however, was snarling like an animal, lips drawn back from his stained teeth, as he wrapped his hand in a towel. For a brief moment, she thought she had knocked acid onto him, but his hand, withdrawn from the cloth, was unscathed.

                “Belle, get out!” he snapped at her, rising to his feet and clenching the edge of the table with a rigid hand, staring fiercely down as if he could burn away the damage she had done, whatever it was. Belle fidgeted with her skirts, unsure of what to do.

                “What is it?” The accoutrements of his potion-making were spread out around him: flasks with cunning hollow arms and wire-packed tubes all suspended from sturdy wood and metal frames. There was a small glass of blue powder to his right hand, and a sludge of mashed herbs in a pestle next to the bottle she’d upset. He had a small fire burning, fueled by some peculiar turn of his magic: nothing visible, anyway, and yellow oil filled with clumps of something golden and resinous bubbled over it. The tools of his trade were frightening to her, more than she liked to admit. When she had been a small girl, an alchemist had come to the keep, thrown powders together and nearly burned her vision away when she stepped too close.

                Rumpelstiltskin was more careful, she thought, and that was why he was so upset about the mishap. He was standing very still, now, a calculating look on his face, and when he turned his head, he was surprised to see her.

                “I said to get out,” he said tightly, and she nearly did run, but there was some strange need in his eyes, something black and helpless beneath the odd filminess.

                “Let me clean up the rest of your work, if you need to do anything,” she protested, and picked up the bottle she’d splashed onto him, shielding her own hand with a fistful of skirt. The label was in his wiggling writing: _mandrake._ “We dug these up, right?” she asked. She was sure they had: the man-shaped roots had to be unearthed with a sturdy stick and string, and he must have distilled them down into this dark extract that had upset him so. “It’s just—“ she cut off as she turned the bottle and saw the rest of the label: _magicked._ “Magicked for what?”

                “Will you please leave?” He still sounded irritated, but ragged, as if there was some strain upon him, and he sat down in his chair again. “Magicked for love potions, mostly.” He said it flippantly, with a twirl of his hand, but Belle gasped, horrified.

                “Surely you can’t—can’t make love out of spices and magic!” she protested, and he rolled his eyes.

                “That was a delicate way of saying that sometimes, the bride or groom might need a little something extra on their wedding night to make sure things are done properly.” Belle wasn’t reassured.

                “That doesn’t seem right either,” she said, and he snorted.

                “It’s not different from taking a bit of brandy before, just more effective. If you want to argue about the morality of bottling lust, now is not a good time.” His breathing was turning ragged, and his face looked downright pained. Belle stepped towards him, but he held up his hand and halted her. “I need to leave for a while, to sort this out, so we’ll save this chat for later.” He already had purple smoke curling about him, ready to whisk him away, but she spotted a line in his book, opened to a drawing of the mandrake root, and clenched her hand around his, forcing him to stay or take her with him.

                _Mandrake for magicked for aphrodisiacs, handled improperly, may have severe side effects, including an unslakable lust, sensitivity to smell, and a short temper._ Belle bit her lip and simply pointed to the passage.

                “This is what’s happening?” she said, and he nodded shortly. Well, it wasn’t like his temper was exceptionally steady at the best of times. She stepped forward, despite his earlier order, and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. He was burning up, and the touch of her hand made him twitch. “How do you feel?”

                “You should really leave,” he said. Belle blinked down at his darkened eyes.

                “Why?”

                “Because I am fucking priapic, Belle, and I want to tear your clothes off and take you against the wall right there!” he snapped. Belle jumped back, surprised, and with a little smile forming on her face.

                “You want me?” she said. In all her contemplation of Rumpelstiltskin—which, in fairness to his apparent thoughts, had sometimes strayed into appreciation of his legs in his tight leather—she had thought he must court witches and queens and fairies. Not girls without a spark of magic or a history outside their own lands. Maybe a couple restless nights, with her hands clutching her hair while she tossed, had visited him on her behalf as well.

                Or he was bespelled by her error, and her being flattered was nothing but the first step to pressing the advantage of his hunger for her benefit.

                “Always,” he gritted out, and his nails dug into the wood of the table, scoring it. He twisted his head away from her, like a patient in a fever. “Belle, you should leave, really, before I start asking you to stay.” The idea sent a rush of heat to her face, but she didn’t let go of his hand quite yet.

                “Where are you going, then?” He tossed his head and shook her off.

                “To put on a glamour and then a whorehouse somewhere far away, if you must know.”

                “What? No!” she exclaimed. “You needn’t—stay here.” Her words were backing up on her tongue, coming out in the wrong order, and her voice was rough and higher than usual. Rumpelstiltskin blinked at her, bemused through the blind heat in his eyes. She could see a line of sweat moving down the side of his face. She had never seen him sweat before. “With me.” She squeezed his hand firmly, and offered him an embarrassed smile. “Unless—unless you have someone else.”

                “I don’t have anyone,” he said, in a wondering tone, eyes flicking over her face. “Belle, you shouldn’t feel obliged, you didn’t spill it on purpose.” She let go of his hand and walked around the table, to face him, making him hiss and shift his hands to his lap, as if by hiding the bulge building in his trousers, he could make her forget his condition.

                “Rumpelstiltskin,” she said seriously, and reached out to lay her hands on his shoulders, “I’m not obliged. I want to. I want _you._ Mandrake spill or not.”

                “You can’t—Belle, take it back, please,” he groaned, and his hands were suddenly running over her lower arms. “Tell me to leave,” he pleaded, but one look at his eyes let her know he meant _tell me to stay._

                “You want me?” she confirmed, and he only nodded, silently. “You can have me,” she said, and leaned forward, hitching her skirt up to her knees so that she could stand over him, his legs and the sides of the seat pressing against her thighs. His hands moved to her shoulders, down her back, restless, and he looked hunted and hungry as he met her eyes.

                “I’m going to hurt you,” he said, voice a whisper. “Belle, I don’t want to hurt you, and once we start I don’t think I could stop.” Belle tapped his nose with one finger and shook her head.

                “I had a good education,” she said. “And I rode enough horses to wear out my maidenhead, and did enough fencing to stand a little rough handling.” His eyes went wide at her words, and she stroked his cheek. “Come now, I’m not made of glass.” She tilted her head down, enough to give him a hesitant kiss, and he reacted with such need that she nearly panicked. His hands dug into her hips, yanked her down to crush against his, and his lips and tongue were pushing her mouth apart.

                The stiff heat of him, even through his clothes and hers, was enough to make her breath hitch in anticipation and nerves, but she didn’t have much time to consider it. His tongue was finding every space in her mouth, flicking over the roof of her mouth, and it felt like being devoured. She gasped, pushed her own forward, and clutched his shoulders, unable to decide what to do with her hands. Rumpelstiltskin was suffering from no such dilemma: one gripped her backside, keeping her pressed against him, and the other was sliding up over her stomach. The feeling of his hand squeezing her breast, thumb sliding under her dress and blouse to flick at her nipple, made her yelp a little.

                He simply pushed his hips towards hers, the pressure of his cock yet another sensation to deal with, and moved his mouth to her throat, biting and sucking. At least this way she could breathe, though the likelihood of her mind clearing seemed small. She rocked against him, made herself embrace the thought of him slipping inside her, and Rumpelstiltskin groaned, hand leaving her breast to pull her skirts up to her waist, nails brushing over her leg and hip, fingers sliding over her skin and making her tremble. Then he gripped the fabric of her drawers, and she heard through her heavy breathing and his, the sound of fabric tearing. The first thought that came to mind was to wonder if he had used his nails, and if they were sharp enough to rip cloth, even the thin cotton in question.

                Her attention was promptly pulled back to the present as he bit the hollow at her throat and tugged her drawers away: she was pressed naked against the leather of his trousers, and there was wetness between her legs, making her slide against him.

                “Fuck,” Rumpelstiltskin muttered, lifting his mouth from her neck and thrusting his hips forward again, face pained. Belle gasped in response: the feeling of him rubbing against her was exquisite, the pressure sending some thrill right through her center. She moved her hands from gripping at his shoulders to his hips and dragged herself as close to him as she could, a little moan wavering from her lips. Rumpelstiltskin’s hand was still moving, at his waist, pulling at ties and occasionally brushing against her privates, his knuckles a delicious roughness in contrast to smooth leather. “ _Belle_ ,” he groaned, and she whimpered as he slid her backwards a little. No matter that she had asked to help _him_ , the hunger centered between her legs wanted to rub and grind against him until—she didn’t know until what, but that was the only thing she could think to do.

                Then he was guiding her forward again, and without his head bent to her chest, she could look between them to see his cock, thicker than expected, wrapped in his fist. He only groaned and tugged her forward, and Belle moved her legs as wide as she could, then sank down as he guided her.

                The liquid she had left all over his trousers eased his way, and though she felt stretched, the sharp pain of tearing skin was not part of her sensations.

                “Perfect,” Rumpelstiltskin said, voice a growl, and eyes intent on her. She smiled at him and pushed against him till she was completely filled, and the feeling was better than she had expected, the length of him pressed against every sensitive part of her. “Wrap your legs around my waist, Belle,” he said, and his voice was trembling with effort. Belle complied, eyes widening as she shifted and his cock pressed against her differently. She wanted to writhe and grind against him there, so that the blissful small feeling wouldn’t stop.

                His hands crept underneath her, cupping her backside, and she moaned as he lifted her half off him then jerked her down again, meeting the upward thrust of his own hips. She understood why he wanted her to move, then: she was just short enough that she couldn’t have done this part herself in this particular chair.

                The fast, almost violent pace had his flesh rubbing against something above where his cock was buried that made her moan on every thrust of his, and his cock rubbing every inside part of her was almost more than she could bear. Belle simply shifted her hands over his back, wishing she could claw through his shirt to bare skin, and tugged his hair as he moved ever faster.

                Before long, she was simply moaning and repeating his name as they moved, weakened hands grasping half-heartedly at his hair as she let her head lie on his shoulder.

                “Please,” she moaned. “Oh, gods, yes, you feel so good.” Modesty had completely abandoned her, and he responded to her words with a groan of his own, then another curse. Belle had no notion of time, simply knew that his hands clamped around her hips and buttocks were wonderfully tight, and that sometimes she managed to find his mouth to kiss. The rest of her was lost to the feeling of being rubbed against Rumpelstiltskin, fucked into moans.

                The pleasure that encompassed her belly and thighs and everything between unexpectedly burst, sending what felt like waves of perfect bliss through her entire body, stealing her vision and making her legs and spine twitch. She felt her inner muscles squeeze around the thick cock buried inside her, and something hot flooded her as she screamed and clutched Rumpestiltskin’s shoulders.

                Thought returned surprisingly quickly, and she could feel Rumpelstiltskin’s cock softening and sliding out of her. She gave him a shaky grin and climbed off him, worried she would topple off his chair if she waited too long.

                “Belle,” he said softly. “It’s not that easy.” He looked wrecked as he struggled to his feet as well. “You don’t need to do anything, but,” his eyes flicked downwards and she looked, to see him hardening once more, “I’d like you to.” Her legs were still shaky, and she felt sleepy, she was so sated with him, but his face had turned strained again.

                “How long does this last?” she asked, and shifted on her feet. She was still wet, though she felt swollen between her legs. “I’m still willing. As long as you need.”

                He did take her against the wall this time, one hand wrapped under her and the other at her shoulders to save her back from the rough stonework.  He finished before her: his seed burned hot inside her long before she felt her legs start to twitch and his cock nudge her toward that odd, indescribable peak.

                It didn’t matter, because he was stiff again in moments, and she was wrapped around him, chasing every little shock of pleasure with her hands and hips. If she pressed gently down on one rough, sensitive spot hidden among her lips while he thrust into her, release found her almost immediately, spurred on by his moans in her ear. Belle thought to feel him spill his seed and watch his face change with pleasure a few more times, but she lost count of his release with hers, and all notion of time as well.

                Belle was panting, dress unlaced and breasts exposed to Rumpelstiltskin’s hands and mouth (when he wasn’t muttering ‘fuck’ and ‘Belle’ against her while his fingers gripped her hips), sweat sliding down her back and between her legs, where it mixed with her own wetness and the stringy, sticky whiteness of his seed, which filled her so completely she felt sure if she pressed a finger inside herself, she could tug out the shimmery stuff in ropes. And still his cock teased between her legs as they caught their breaths. The idea of stopping or asking or doing anything other than let him continue to thrust himself inside her and make her shake with pleasure was completely foreign. She twitched as he rubbed the tip of his cock against the sensitive bud that drove her quickly to distraction, a promise of future bliss.

                “How long have we been--?” she faltered a little bit. He smiled wickedly and slid inside her, making her oversensitive inner lips tingle.

                “Fucking?” he asked. “Apparently not long enough, because I can’t relax. The more I have you, the more I need you. You’re not in pain, are you?” Belle touched his cheek and smiled when he leaned into her hand: she had let him pin her against a wall, and his seed was dripping out of her, but he relished her gentle touch.

                “No. No pain.” She glanced over at his table as he rocked his hips against her, and tried to hold onto her thought. “I shouldn’t be so happy about you being cursed to not find satisfaction, I think.”

                “I could look forever with you,” he gritted out, and Belle twitched her mouth up, a thought coming to her.

                “We could find a bed. Might be a little easier.” She would be bruised all over tomorrow, and if she was being truthful, she was a little sore between her legs. Not sore enough to stop him, but it would be nice to lie down, over or under him.

                Rumpelstiltskin blinked, face chagrined as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it himself, and nodded.

                “Yes,” he managed, because he was still moving inside her, and she was tightening her legs around his waist. “Good plan.”

                It was nightfall and they were both naked by the time Rumpelstiltskin raised himself onto his hands and knees and howled her name while she twisted and clenched around him.

                “Belle, Belle, Belle,” he gasped, and she struggled to hear him through the pleasure shaking her from head to toe. “Fuck, Belle, this is the end of it, fuck, I’m fucking coming for real—“ His words stuttered into a gulping moan that kept her twitching and crying out at every pounding movement of his hips, and she was still seeing stars when she felt him pour into her, crying out raggedly.

                He all but fell on her at the end, sliding wetly out and collapsing onto the mattress.

                “I’m too tired to move,” Belle said sleepily. She was tired, and sore, and she had pulled a muscle or two, she thought. Rumpelstiltskin simply murmured something that sounded like ‘mmmmmhm’ and wrapped an arm about her.

                He smelled like the extract she’d spilled, she realized, among the sweat and overall musty, leaf-smell of him, and she yanked the covers up and fell asleep the moment they settled over her.


End file.
